


Binte Dil

by Yass_Rani



Category: Bollywood - Fandom, Khilji, Padmaavat
Genre: Bollywood, LGBT Indian, M/M, Padmaavat - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:07:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22876777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yass_Rani/pseuds/Yass_Rani
Summary: The untold story (not by any means factual because homophobic historians fuckin messed it up for all of us) of one of India's intensely gay love stories - Alauddin Khilji and Malik Kafur.
Relationships: Alauddin Khilji/Malik Kafur, Khilji/Kafur
Comments: 6
Kudos: 38
Collections: Bollywood





	1. Chapter 1

Sultan Alauddin Khilji, the infamous ruler of Mughal India, tossed around in his bed at his palace in the heart of his empire, Delhi, as the week’s events kept him awake. He was known as India’s most powerful ruler, the strongest of all of them, but he didn’t know why he felt like he missed something. 

He felt incomplete, imperfect, uncomfortable and most of all, he felt something he’d never felt before. He had a pang of guilt in his heart. Now, guilt was a feeling Khilji wasn’t familiar with. He’d done so many things in his life, and never felt bad for one thing. Neither when he killed all those people nor when he destroyed their cities. But this night, it was different. It was nothing he ever experienced before; it was Padmavati. 

As he tried to sleep, his dreams – or rather, nightmares – were filled with the previous day’s incidents. The Rajputs’ conches blowing as he killed their king, the clamor he heard in the palace as he went towards it, the sound of hundreds of anklets and bangles clanking as the women of Chittor ran silently towards the fire, and their shrieks of pain and agony as they burnt in the fire of Jauhar. He screamed in anger and agony at the door closing just out of his reach; he’d realized the Rajputs had won, even in their death.

He woke up sweating and gasping, and heard a soft melody playing on a flute. His favorite song. The one that always played after a war, or a tough day, or when he was particularly tensed or tired, or very happy, always in his private chambers. He reached for the pitcher of water on his bedside, gulped the water down and looked towards the source of the music.  
As he expected, on his bedside table sat his closest and most loyal man, Malik Kafur, playing a wooden flute, eyes closed, fingers moving slowly and gracefully in perfection, one leg hanging off the table with the other folded under it, his sharp features accented in the dim candlelight in the room, his dark, curly locks glimmering in the night and his eyes gently opening at the end of the song.  
“Kafur?”  
“Yes, huzur?” he said in his soft, yet husky voice, that Alauddin somehow felt calmed by.  
“Why are you playing your flute at this hour, Kafur?”  
“Because you were having a nightmare, huzur. You had to calm down.”  
He always seemed to care so much.  
The Sultan smiled softly, hoping Malik didn’t see it, except he did and was smirking at him right now. He told Malik to keep playing, and slowly laid his head on his pillows, eyes still open, looking at the man who the world knew as his servant, but the Sultan considered him a friend, and perhaps, maybe, somewhere deep, something more than that. 

Only, Malik didn’t know. As he played the flute, he thought about himself, and what he meant to the Sultan. Of course, he was ‘gifted’ to the Sultan-E-Hind by his father-in-law as a servant, but he felt like he was more than just a servant. He wanted to be more than just a servant. He opened his eyes to see Alauddin sleeping peacefully, his hair fluttering in the soft nighttime breeze, for what he knew was the first time in several weeks, happy and calm, bringing a small smile to grace his features.


	2. Chapter 2

Early next morning, Khilji woke up to his birds chirping to the sunlight. He got ready as usual and headed to the courtroom, a lavish hall with a large, grand throne with sunlight streaming through the large window behind and illuminated by the jeweled tapestries in the room.

As he sat on his throne and signaled to his court to begin the day’s proceedings, they read out the day’s news and brought a few criminals into the court and read their crimes out, to which the Sultan had signaled for the court to punish the criminals themselves. He himself was busy, not paying attention to anything but rather thinking about last night.

After the day’s court ended, Alauddin walked back into his room to have lunch, and wondered where Malik was; Kafur usually was the first person who he saw in the morning. He shouted out to his servants outside the door to summon Malik and a few minutes later, there he was at the door, in his usual white robes and leather shoes, except he was wearing a veil on his face that covered the left of his face. A sense of suspicion and annoyance rose in Khilji. No one covered their face in the presence of the Sultan-E-Hind.

“Kafur, remove that veil and come in.”

“Ji _huzur_ , but I can’t remove the veil.” he said as he entered the chamber.

As the light from the lamp near the entrance lit Malik’s face up, Alauddin realized his face was swollen up and through the now translucent veil, he could see blood and cuts on Malik’s usually perfect face.

 _‘Perfect face? Alauddin, concentrate.’_ He said to himself as he took in what happened to Malik.

“Malik, come near me and remove the veil, now.” He said a little sternly.

“Ji _huzur.”_

As he slowly removed the veil, he saw that Alauddin had something he’d never seen in his eyes. Was it sadness? Pity? Curiosity?

Whatever it was, the immediate anger that flashed through his eyes covered it up.

The warrior, the best fighter in all of Hindustan, Malik Kafur had a large cut on his cheek, and multiple small bruises on his face. Khilji was stunned. He’d never seen an injury this bad on Malik. He was seething with rage as he growled “Who did this?”.

Malik was surprised. He’s never seen his master this angry since, well, _Padmaavati_.

“It’s nothing _Huzur_. I’ll take care of it.”

“No it’s not nothing and you will tell me who did this.”

“Huzur, really, don-”

“Malik will you shut up about this and tell me who it is?”, Khilji nearly shouted.

 _“Maafi, Huzur_ , it was those courtiers.” Malik said in a slightly lower voice.

Khilji stood up immediately, the anger still in his eyes, and ordered the soldier outside his chamber to call the doctor, to which the poor guy ran in sheer terror, scared of what would take place if he were even a second late.

After about two minutes of uncomfortable silence between the two men, the doctor came in with his medicinal herbs, took one look at Kafur and asked him to sit down. He looked at the cuts on Malik’s face and ground different leaves he always carried in his first aid bag.

Malik just sat there saying nothing. He was surprised that the Sultan _actually cared_ to get him medical help, cared enough to notice his scars. He’d seldom seen Khilji this angry, and it felt different this time, because the anger was _for_ Malik, not particularly at anyone as was usually the case.

Alauddin stood near the window, his back half turned from the injured man and the doctor and looked out the window. He decided he needed to find out who did this to his most trusted - even known popularly as the Sultan’s _khaas_ – man and turned around to face the doctor and Malik.

“How long is this going to take?”, he asked the doctor.

“About 3 hours, sir.” He replied, now slowly applying the paste to the cuts on Malik’s face.

That was a good amount of time for the Sultan. That’s what he needed to go find out what happened.

He ordered the doctor to work his best and walked out of his bedroom, took a black scarf hanging from a hook on the wall, covered his face and went out of his chambers.

Darkness had fallen, and the dark corridors of his palace couldn’t exactly help anyone see the Sultan sneaking out of his chambers, which helped him a lot as he blended into the shadows with the scarf and his usual full black attire. He walked towards the courtiers’ chambers, where at this time of the night they have their hookah and dinner parties.

“That wretched Hazar Dinari escaped again!” a voice floated from inside the room.

Khilji slowly walked towards the door and found a crack in the side of the wood. He peered inside and found four of his worst courtiers – yeah, he did pay _some_ attention in court – talking among themselves.

“I sent three of my best assassins in his room but he escaped with a mere cut! And he also killed them all! I spent so much on them.” said the same voice, to which the others nodded in agreement.

“He spent half the night in the Sultan’s room and god knows what he did there!” another voice said, and when Khilji looked harder, he realized that was his finance minister. No wonder the treasury was depleting.

“Sultan’s pet! He never leaves Khilji’s side and the master trusts him so much, he doesn’t care about us!”

“I asked the Sultan to increase taxes because the treasury was depleting but then Mr. Loyal Servant found out about the money we kept from the treasury and suggested the Sultan should take taxes from us nobles!”

“And he did it! My wife’s killing me for giving that diamond necklace to the taxers!”

Alauddin had heard enough. He went back towards his chambers, well hid by the now completely dark corridors, to find the soldiers outside his room asleep! Outrageous! He needed to talk to them sometime.

Khilji walked into his bedroom, taking the scarf off before he entered and looked at the doctor finishing up and half of Malik’s face covered in a cloth bandage. It was unusual for him to look this way; Malik never got a single injury and never once fell sick. The Sultan had often admired his highly effective metabolism. Why, the man had survived through the harshest deserts and the coldest mountain peaks when they went on battles.

“Sultan?” Malik asked in a slightly scared voice; he still thought the Sultan was angry.

“Yes Malik?” the reply came, in a surprisingly gentle tone.

“May I be excused to go to my room for the night?”

“Yes, Malik. Also, make sure you wake my guards up while you’re leaving.”

Malik smirked. _That’s going to be fun_.

“Ji _huzur_.”

Malik got up from the chair, bowed ever so gracefully and walked out of the room. Barely 5 seconds later, Khilji heard two loud, resounding slaps from outside his chamber and chuckled as he heard the dumb guards look around for their attacker who had seemingly disappeared into the shadows. The man never failed to impress.


	3. Chapter 3

“Sir… you’ve been… sent for… by the Sultan,” a slightly out-of-breath servant said, gasping between each word.

Malik dismissed the servant with a wave of his hand as he got up and grabbed his white shawl and dagger. He wondered what the Sultan needed him to do this early on a Friday morning. He never called in anyone before the Friday morning prayer unless it was highly important.

He was a few feet away from the Sultan’s door when he heard people – three men, to be exact – asking him to forgive them.

Pleading.

Asking for their lives to be spared.

Malik already knew the answer to their pleas. The Sultan never forgave. They were in for a hard time.

Kafur walked to the door and bowed to the Sultan, looking up to see the three courtiers; The finance minister and his two scrooges kneeling at Khilji’s feet while he looked quite annoyed at their constant ‘whining’ as he described it several times during the times they caught traitors and punished them.

_Fun times._

“Ah! Malik Kafur! Come in.”

He walked in and the three idiots turned to beg him instead. _Bad idea_.

Bad idea because Kafur had a worse level of patience.

“Malik, sir, please!”

“Please spare us!”

“It was a mistake! Sorry!”

Why, the fools were in tears by now. Kafur zoned their cries out to look at the Sultan, who was frowning and scrunching his nose up at the stupid courtiers now holding onto Malik’s feet.

Alauddin raised his thumb and drew it across his neck, signaling to Kafur, who simply smirked.

“All three of you, SHUT IT AND SIT UP!”, Malik said sternly. He’d realized they were the ones that sent the assassins.

Of course they would. Dumb, useless idiots. Who in their right minds would send assassins to kill one of the best fighters in the land?

The courtiers sat on their knees looking up at Kafur, praying for their lives, scared out of their skins.

Thud!

Three bodies lay on the floor with a loud thump with one swift movement of Kafur’s wrist as he whipped his deadly sharp dagger out and cut their necks, perfectly deep enough to kill them, but not enough to draw too much blood which would make it hard to clean up.

Khilji smirked at the quick prowess and patted Kafur on the shoulder, told him to get to the prayer hall and walked outside to order the servants to clean up inside.

Kafur walked outside to find the Sultan _waiting for him_ at the doorway.

“Let’s go to the prayer.”

“Yes, _huzur._ ”

The two men walked in complete silence, the sound of their leather shoes hitting the cold stone floors echoing through the empty corridors.

“Thank you, _Sultan_ , but I could’ve handled that myself. You didn’t need to go through the trouble.”

“No, they need to learn. They have to know what happens when they mess with _my_ people.”

Malik smiled inwardly. The sultan actually considered him to be one of his closest? Huh! Who thought.

They finally reached the prayer hall. Khilji walked up to the front, motioning Malik to follow him and they both sat down on mats beside each other, while the priest started the ceremonies. All through the prayer, Malik couldn’t help thinking about how much the Sultan thought of him. Heck, he even caught the courtiers and left them to Malik’s mercy. Honestly, if the Sultan and Kafur had time, they would’ve taken the better way and tortured the rascals until they begged for death. But sadly, Khilji felt too lazy to do it, and decided to have Malik kill them.

After the prayer ended, the Sultan turned to Malik and told him to join him for lunch. Malik was pretty sure he wanted to talk about the attacks. Well, this was going to be entertaining.

These talks were always fun. They’d laugh about how incompetent the nincompoops were and how they wasted their money on the assassins.

The two men sat in Khilji’s chambers eating their lunch. It was really good today; the cooks had done a great job. There was roti, deer gravy, ostrich and lamb biryanis, and Khilji’s personal favorite – peacock.

“Tell me, how bad were the assassins this time?” Khilji asked, smirking.

“They were better than the ones sent for you last week, Sultan. A waste, if you ask me. They were pretty good. Could’ve been useful if I’d trained them,” replied Malik, relishing the food and the way the conversation was going to go.

“True, I guess. The ones that came for me were completely dumb. One of them couldn’t even block my punch! I killed them bare handed. Why do these idiots never learn fighting without weapons?”

“That was nothing compared to the ones that attacked us at the party last month.” Malik chuckled.

“Oh god, those were the biggest idiots I’d seen. Who in the world tries to attack us when we’re in the same room?!”

 _That was actually funny_ , Malik thought. Those stupid idiots had run towards the Sultan and Malik at a party with swords in their hands from a corner and thought no one saw them.

 _Stupid_.

Khilji had stood up and grabbed the first one’s hand and twisted it so hard, Malik was pretty certain something broke. As for the second one, he’d run away out of sheer fright after he saw Kafur’s death glare. _Incompatible dunderheads_.

These kinds of talks were always quite entertaining. Khilji and Malik would frequently chat about the spies and assassins that tried to attack them and failed stupendously every single time. Both of them were actually tired of hoping that one day, an actual assassin who _at least knew_ how to attack someone and didn’t just swing a sword in the air hoping they’d hit someone.

“You know, this one time, my father in law sent an assassin to kill me, and the guy ran away as soon as I _looked_ at him. Such a badly trained idiot. Ha. He never did have good taste in warriors. Do you believe he actually thought he could kill me?” Khilji chuckled, remembering the panic stricken face of the “assassin” Jalaluddin had sent.

Malik chuckled in response. “Sultan, it’s been almost 3 years since I’ve been here, and I’m pretty sure we’ve had a couple hundred people sent in to kill us, and they all failed.”

“No surprise, why do you think they call you the best fighter in the land?”

Malik laughed in response. Khilji joined in and Malik realized he hadn’t laughed like this in a really long time. He’d also made the Sultan laugh!

He just sat there smiling, looking at the laughing emperor and took in his view. Happy, deep, _gorgeous_ voice, crinkled eyes, mouth open in laughter and overall, a rare but beautiful sight, of course. However, the sultan opened his eyes and caught Malik staring. Kafur realized a second too late and his face went red as the deer gravy on their plates.

“What’s the matter, Malik?”

“Nothing, _huzur._ It’s just that… you haven’t laughed like this in a long time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for choosing to read! please leave kudos and comments, they mean a lot!


	4. Chapter 4

It was a beautiful _Itwaar_ morning. Khilji’s pigeons scuttled around his balcony as he scattered seeds around him. He’d always been fond of pigeons.

Ever since his childhood, he had a special ability with them. They were his best friends. He could understand them, and they could understand Khilji. They were his longest, truest companions.

He’d seen so many people cheat, kill and break hearts. He’d done it himself, why, his _dear, dear_ wife, Mehrunnisa, the Mallika – I – Jahan, the powerful, talented, beautiful lady he’d married, had grieved so much about his obsession with the Rani of Chittor, the famous Padmavati, she was eventually found dead in a prison cell.

Oh, how shocked Khilji was when he heard the news. One lady had burnt, and the other one died. There were no women left in the empire fit to be the great emperor’s partners.

The pigeons, however, never did him any wrong. Never did anyone any wrong. Much like Kafur, he thought. He glanced over at the man standing at the other end of the balcony, feeding his own flock of pigeons – well, they were Khilji’s, but it seemed like Kafur had the same ability as Khilji’s he managed to earn the pigeons’ trust in just a few weeks of him arriving. They’d never trusted anyone except Alauddin. Not even Mehru, but they seemed to feel comfortable only with Khilji and Kafur.

“ _Huzur_ , may I ask you a question?” Alauddin was snapped out of his thoughts and normally he’d have slapped the idiot who interrupted him straight across the face, but this was Malik.

“Yes, Malik?”

“Why do you like pigeons so much you hate eating them and keep them as pets even though you eat everything else?”

Khilji smirked. This particular question was a stab at the previous day’s conversation where Khilji had said he loved eagle meat when a courtier had said how he loved his pet eagle.

“Well, it’s got a pretty interesting story. My first pigeon was a gift from my Ammi. She died a few days later and since then, I don’t know why but I’ve been able to understand them. Maybe because Ammi wanted me to care for the bird, she helped me understand them.”

Malik smiled slightly. This was the first time the Sultan had told him something very personal, something emotional.

“I even used these pigeons to write letters to Mehru when I was first courting her,” he continued, with a rather emotional, nostalgic look in his eyes as he looked over at the far horizon.

“I wasn’t allowed in the ladies’ tower, so I used these to send her notes. I’d trained them to only land near Mehru, no one else. Those were good days.”

He sighed ever so slightly, the faraway look still in his eyes.

Malik felt something go through him. He felt a jolt of something. Something he’d never felt. He felt it when he saw the Sultan talking about the Mallika – i – Jahan in that… tone. It was different. Way different than his usual rough tone, or friendly tone. It was almost… loving.

Yes, that’s the word. Loving.

He felt something pick at him when he heard Khilji talking about Mehrunnisa in his rare voice that somehow seemed to remove all the gruffness in his voice – it was still there, just masked by something different. Something better. However, he shoved the thought far back into his head for later. He’d never want to zone out in the Emperor’s company now, would he?

Alauddin turned to his loyal servant – no, wait, friend. He simply looked at the younger man smiling up at him. Khilji had noticed this before but never actually cared about it, but it seemed like Malik always had that smile on his face. Never did it falter. It was on there since the moment Khilji first laid eyes on him. It was there when he talked to him first, when he killed Jalaluddin, when he first came to the Delhi court, when Khilji ordered him to kill anyone, it was always there. Not that he didn’t enjoy it of course. He was the only person that could kill someone with a smile. Except Khilji, of course.

“Now, Kafur, what do you think about a duel?”

“Of course, huzur. What are the premises?” the reply came with a tone of excitement, poorly masked. Kafur loved duels.

“Well, it’s a normal duel. The usual, yeah. Swords, hands, first to fall loses.”

Now, it is important to be noted that both the men were unequalled in their prowess. Tall, lanky and muscular, Malik was a pro at being fast and sneaky. Hell, he was known as one of the stealthiest warriors in the land. Khilji, on the other hand had a huge physique and although not quick, was very strong and had enough power to kill someone with a single punch.

The two men now stood at the courtyard’s weapon holders, choosing their weapons. Malik went with his usual, a longsword, light and custom made for his long fingers, giving him his desired speed and lightness, with quite enough range to not hurt the enemy, in this case, but to successfully overpower them. Alauddin went with his preferred heavy, thick sword, with the usual Khilji décor at the hilt – never being one to compromise on the richness or beauty of anything he owned, not excluding weapons.

This was the third duel between them. The first one, when Malik was first trained and Khilji wanted to see his proficiency. The second time, they were training together (considerably one of the best moments of Malik’s life). Both times, however, they hadn’t been able to end the duel what with stupid ministers and soldiers interrupting as usual. This time, the sheer determination and mad passion in both participants’ eyes clearly spoke volumes and everyone in the nearest nine kingdoms knew better than to interrupt.

Khilji, always being one for showing off, slowly tucked a hand behind his back, resting it in the folds of his shawl. This looked like he was showing off, but in reality, it was a tactic.

He never went off guard. His hand would always be ready to administer a fatal punch if needed.

Malik, of course, knew this from years of observing the Sultan’s style. He himself did it to make opponents think he was powerless, except because of his lack of strength in hand to hand fights, he’d held a dagger in the hand.

Both men assumed dueling stances. Shoulders bared, one leg in front of the other, slightly crouched. The sheer excitement in their eyes matched the glow of the sun rising over the horizon, their faces half shadowed and half illuminated, the light shining off their swords enough to blind anyone in a two yard’s distance. Anyone else standing with swords and ready to duel would be weak in their knees, but not these two. They thrived in the beauty of sword fighting and, of course, who best to duel with than their equals?

After what felt like an hour of strained staring at each other, albeit with smirks unmoving on their features, they moved forward with surprising unison and clashed their swords, a clang of metal resounding through the otherwise deathly silent courtyard.

They pulled back, Malik swinging for a second strike to the Sultan’s neck, who blocked it with his own sword, almost effortlessly considering his strength, although shocked by the sheer speed Malik attacked at.

Khilji served back with a spin of his sword straight at Malik, who, never being one for all the spinning, shining nonsense, blocked it with a simple raise of his own sword. He then proceeded to twist his wrist back to force the larger man to pull back his sword, during which time Malik again swung his sword at the Sultan, who, of course, wasn’t exactly known for his speed, but managed to just block it.

The newly built up tension was thick in the air as they returned, back to their initial stances. Khilji flourished his word, twirling it towards Malik, forcing him to take a step backwards. A series of jabs from each party followed, none hurting anyone as they were either deflected or, like Kafur’s last jab, that Khilji dodged within the space of a hair.

“ _Subhanallah_ , Kafur, that was brilliant”, he said, to which Kafur only looked at him and smirked. Flattering wasn’t an option here, and as a reply, Kafur jabbed, Khilji deflected and they continued this dance, twirling around each other and stopping in defensive stances as Khilji paused for a breath.

Kafur continued to swing his weapon at the Sultan, who was forced to block them, moving a step backwards every time. The shorter man’s sword swung over his head a few times, missing him only by a few millimeters, forcing him to duck and move further backwards.

They had now entered the small pavilion in the middle of the courtyard, as Malik delivered a swing that would have nearly cut the Sultan’s arm off if he hadn’t moved quick enough. Still, the few pearls on the side of his rich woolen shawl scattered to the floor. Khilji sent a strong jab towards Malik, who swerved to the side, lacking the strength to deflect a hit that strong.

He swung back at the Sultan’s head, who blocked it yet again and Malik shot a reply back to Khilji who twirled around a nearby pillar, not expecting the blow. Pausing for a quick breath, Alauddin swung his weapon to the right, to which Malik bent backwards, making Khilji do a full twirl, giving Malik an opportunity to stab him in the back. He jabbed as hard as he could, and probably would have cut the Sultan’s skin if he hadn’t realized what Kafur was about to do and turned around right in time to block it.

This duel, Kafur noted, was turning quite exhilarating. The Sultan had no patience and his attacks were getting increasingly unplanned and sloppy, making him resort to only defending Malik’s practiced, planned attacks. Now all that was left for Malik to do was get rid of the Sultan’s weapon. Easy, no?

Well, no. The Sultan had taken opportunity of Malik’s train of thought and swung his sword upright at him. Malik blocked the blow; however the blade was too close to push back – he had to walk backwards. Although, before he could do that, Khilji brought his other hand to the front and, pushing forward against Malik’s sword, he held the other man’s wrist and pushed forwards, forcing Malik to step back until he was backed up against a pillar.

This was new to both the men. Neither of them had never been backed up against the wall by someone and of course, they didn’t do it to someone before, either. Amidst the ragged breaths and quick heartbeats, they were both confused and in a complete state of euphoria from the adrenaline-pumped duel they just had.

They stared at each other, Khilji noticing the other man’s eyes, his knitted eyebrows, his ragged breathing as Khilji held his wrist; and Malik noticing the way the Sultan pushed against him, almost gentle, very unlike what he usually did during duels, or anything, for that matter. His scars, his eyes, the look – was that softness? – in the deep pool of his honey brown eyes. They were so close they could feel each other’s ragged breathing and hear blood rushing through their bodies.

The tension was so thick they could’ve cut it if their swords weren’t currently pushing at each other.

Kafur snapped out of it first, gasping for air and pushing his sword against the heavier one, catching the Sultan by surprise. It caused the bigger man to slide backwards on the smooth sandstone and brush against one of the heavy curtains that shielded the pavilion.

They twirled and swung their weapons at each other amidst their running and stopping only to catch a breath or block a jab. They jumped over swords, ducked behind curtains and twirled around to confuse their opposition, except it wasn’t fooling anyone because they knew each other’s styles so well it was at this point, a game of who’d give up first.

They stopped for a minute, trying to catch their breaths, and stared at each other, always vigilant about the other – however, Kafur didn’t notice the slight movement of Khilji’s left hand; he’d cut a rope tied to a pillar behind him.

As Kafur lifted his sword to strike at the Sultan, he felt it catch on to the now falling cloth canopy of the pavilion. Of course, Khilji would do that.

By the time he got out of the mess of satin – he had to remind the workers to _not_ use cloth as canopies when they had the entire material of North Hindustan to use – Khilji was nowhere to be seen.

He could hear nothing except for the occasional flapping of the pigeons’ feathers and the chirp of birds in the garden. The drapes all around him were quiet and heavy, and he couldn’t figure out which way the Sultan went.

That was until he felt a scarf wrap against him.

Khilji tugged at the cloth, a simple pull, but it was enough for Malik to stagger backwards right into his arms, as the Sultan placed a knife on his cheek, trailing soft along his jawbone, pressing, but not enough to draw blood, and resting it against the shorter man’s throat.

Before Kafur could even try to counter he was pushed to the couch in the corner of the pavilion, pinned down by Khilji’s dagger and Khilji himself on top, one knee up on the couch beside Kafur, almost straddling the warrior.

“I won.” Said Khilji with a smirk on his face Kafur hadn’t seen in long but was very tempted to wipe off, and he would’ve.

Except, look at him right now. Trapped.

His back to the wall, Khilji straddling him, nowhere to move except up.

Which was not the reason why he did move up.

He was staring right into Khilji’s eyes, in denial about his loss, and the next moment he found himself pushing up to Khilji, balancing on his elbow.

So close, he could smell the _ittr_ in Khilji’s hair. So close, he could feel the Sultan’s heartbeat mix with his, so fast it was impossible to differentiate between them. So close he could feel the Sultan’s breath on his lips.

So, so close, their lips grazed against each other.

The lightest touch, but a touch nonetheless. The kind of touch that sent a jolt through both men.

Khilji, well, he had kissed other men before, never Malik. He wouldn’t admit, but he had thought of it before. He’d wondered how Kafur’s lips would feel against his, how his beautiful face would feel in his hands. He’d wondered a lot.

And now? They were close enough and the adrenaline pumping through him made Khilji decide to go for it.

He leaned in to close the rest of the gap and-

“ _Ahem._ Huzur…”

Goddamn these soldiers! Always turning up at the worst times imaginable, never when they’re actually useful.

The two men scrambled apart, throwing their swords on the couch and moving away to a safe distance, before Khilji turned to the damned soldier with a glare, making the poor man shake with terror.

 _Duty called. Personal matters later_.

Of course, his mother’s words resonated through to him, and he left to the court leaving a very flustered Malik behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! please leave kudos and comments and tell me about anything I can do!


End file.
